Your Move
by AMALGAMATIN
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective in the history of modern-day London, uncovers the existence of a man whose intelligence rivals his own. This is no longer a great game of solving crimes - it's a battle to the death, in which only one of the contenders survive. Takes place during Season One, almost right before the revelation of Moriarty.


The man picked up a piece of fruit.

He showed an expression of disgust, and put it down with an angry sigh. His eyes flitted back, landing on their target.

The man sprung up a little and was about to run, then thought better of it and walked forward, quickening his pace until he was parallel to the grouchy old woman who had been complaining about her back for the past five minutes.

Rightly so, for she had a gigantic pack on her back - likely a tourist. But the man didn't care about that.

He cared about a possible murder.

Keeping the woman between himself and the man he was tracking, he suddenly maneuvered around the woman, dashed towards the man, and stumbled into him. The other man shook himself, looked back, and snorted before walking on once more. The man smiled at the sight.

"Sherlock? Sherlock where are you? I've been calling you for thirty minutes so far, and only now you pick up? Just what exactly have you been doing?" John Watson shouted into the phone. He sighed, deciding to calm down and soften his tone. Acting like an angry, spoiled child would do no good, and it certainly wouldn't affect his friend's attitude. "Warn me before you go off and be reckless."

"I'm sorry, what? Lestrade was filling me in. You always start a cell phone conversation with a tirade, so I figured I might spare myself the pain. Could you come over to Winchester Street, cross street 5th Avenue?" An unmistakable tone of glee filled his voice to the brim as he added, "There's been a murder!"

Watson stood next to Inspector Lestrade as they both watched one of the most famous detectives in the world smell a dead man's socks. Sherlock Holmes appeared frustrated so far. Watson knew that meant he had no clues as of yet. Sherlock started to rummage through the man's pockets and coat, searching for any information. Pulling out a wallet, Sherlock started to hum.

_He's found something_, John thought. _But what do those objects have to do with anything?_

Sherlock put the cards on the ground next to the corpse and continued. He took out a tiny magnifying glass, held it to the man's legs, then moved onto the man's arms, then finally, the man's neck and head. He seemed to take a prolonged amount of time to check the hair of the dead man. Clucking his tongue, Sherlock slowly pulled away from the body, lost in thought.

"Sherlock? This man's name was David Diamondbak, and he was found on the doorstep of his home by his wife. She called the police once she realized her husband was missing, then went outside to see if he was about to arrive. That was when she found him, dead, from what seems like natural causes. The official report is that this was an accident. I personally believe that that's true…this was a result of- " Lestrade noticed that Sherlock was not intent on listening to his information and frowned.

"Sherlock? Sher- "

"Would you please be quiet!" Sherlock Holmes thundered. "I must concentrate, and to do that, I need a quiet environment – one that doesn't interrupt me!"

Lestrade immediately stopped talking. In an attempt to appease Holmes, he even steadied his body until he was trembling. He wanted to avoid attracting more of Sherlock's anger.

Sherlock straightened up and walked past them, heading out of the building.

"Where are you going? You haven't told us what we can do!" Lestrade yelled after him, exasperated.

Watson hurried around Lestrade and walked alongside Sherlock, who muttered, "You can shut up, for one."

"What was that?" Lestrade asked.

"Nothing."

Watson immediately started talking to Sherlock as they turned a corner and were out of the inspector's sight. "So what did you find?"

"A clue. A small one, but it should clear up any questions I could have about the body. I also found that Inspector Lestrade can be very annoying when he tries to be, and he always tries."

Watson looked at him. "That's it?"

Sherlock matched his gaze, staring him in the eye as they walked. "His name's David Diamondbak, like Lestrade told us. Age thirty-four, he likes knitting in his spare time, sometimes knitting his own clothing, and hides that unmanly hobby from his wife, who is sexist. He is also a prominent businessman, reads books for hours and hours on end, likes to play Clue very much, and is a long-time cancer patient."

Watson shook his head in disbelief.

"So you didn't just find a clue. Wait. Wait a minute here. You knew all that…just by sniffing him? And, and by looking through his wallet? How?"

Sherlock didn't say anything at first.

When he finally began to speak, Watson could tell that he was not focused on what he was saying. "His name is on his driver's license. I guessed for the age, but we can already cross out all ages below thirty and all ages above forty just by looking at him. He must be thirty-four because of the ratio of gray hairs to brown hairs. Simple math. Furthermore, that sweater was knitted carefully so as to look like a department store sweater to fool a person. Who would he want to fool but his wife? His friends wouldn't care much about his attire even if they did notice."

Watson opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock Holmes quickly interrupted him, saying, "He had a wedding ring in his pocket so as to not lose it."

Watson closed his mouth.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued, "His clothes give away his status as a businessman, and calluses on the fingertips and overdeveloped arms show that he either spent a lot of time playing video games or a lot of time reading books, I believe books. No grown man plays video games. I said he likes to play Clue to see the puzzled expression on your face – he actually likes to play Monopoly."

Watson rolled his eyes.

Sherlock pretended not to see.

"Finally, I knew he was a cancer patient because of sores on his mouth and throat and spare hairs on his sweater that were the same color and texture as the hairs on his head, both clear signs of chemotherapy.

John held up his hand.

"Okay," Watson said.

John paused. Then said again, "Okay. But what does cancer have to do with being killed? And where exactly are we walking?"

Sherlock walked up to the doors of a cancer-treating facility and opened them, walking inside.

As Watson followed him, he heard Sherlock say, "It's obvious where we're going now. As for the answer to your first question…"

Sherlock Holmes smiled.

"Cancer has everything to do with how that man died."


End file.
